Well, all right.
Smithie could get on board with that beast being Mac’s bodyguard.
Smithie stood. “I approve of your selection, Delgado, but what next?”
“We track that asshole down and put him out of commission,” Hawk replied immediately.
And it didn’t take long to slide right into the gray area with Hawk Delgado.
No, that wasn’t it.
Lee could do gray and did. All the time.
When it came to Delgado, shit got downright murky.
“What would that entail?” Smithie asked.
“Do you care?” Hawk returned.
“Kinda, considering I’m payin’ you for this shit,” Smithie told him.
“Whatever it needs to entail,” Hawk answered. “That letter,” Hawk did another head jerk, “we’ll need to make absolutely certain our message is received. Could be building a case to hand over to the cops. Could be something else.”
Right. For now, he could deal with that.
“Mac needs protection,” Smithie stated.
Hawk nodded his agreement. “And she’ll have Mo. Twenty-four seven. We aren’t Secret Servicing this shit, even if we are. He’s on her, day and night. He sleeps on the floor by her bed if she doesn’t have a chair or something in her bedroom. He goes to the grocery store with her. He stands outside the bathroom while she’s showering. I’m thinking you can fill in the rest of that picture.”
He could fill in the picture, but Smithie wasn’t sure he was totally following.
“Secret Servicing this shit?”
“Secret Service passes off. They do shifts. There will be no pass off. Mo’s hers for as long as it takes to find this guy.”
Now Smithie wasn’t sure he was liking what he was following.
“Is that smart?”
“I’m sure I can make a passable attempt at finding a decent stripper. Though I couldn’t pick a headliner if she tapped me on the shoulder. So how ’bout you let me make the calls I gotta make ’cause you assume I know what I’m doin’ like I would do for you if my business got caught up in yours. Something that’s happening right now. But I’ll let you do yours if you let me do mine.”
“Gotcha,” Smithie murmured.
“Your staff, on heightened alert. The dancers. The bouncers. The bartenders and the waitresses. I’ll brief them, tell them what they’re lookin’ for, this being after we interview them to ascertain if they’ve already clocked someone of interest. You tell McAlister. She needs to know and make smart choices. I’ll coach her on that.”
Smithie flicked his gaze to Mo and back to Hawk. “Won’t Mo coach her on that?”
“Mo’s not a communicator.”
This was not a surprise.
Hawk spoke on.
“Call her. Tell her she’s got Mo. Tell her he’s not on her house, he’s gonna be in her house. Tell her she’s gotta come in early. Tell her Mo’ll be bringin’ her in early. I’ll be here when she gets here, and you and me’ll share. I’ll tell her what she needs to know. And we’ll go from there.”
Smithie nodded.
Without another word, both men turned as one to walk out the door.
Smithie watched them go.
After Mo disappeared out the door, Hawk stopped there and turned back.
“Secret Service is also trained to put themselves in the path of the bullet,” Hawk said.
Shit.
“Right,” Smithie whispered.
“For that man on the mark, it isn’t about getting the target to safety. It’s about taking the bullet for his mark. You with me?” Hawk asked.
That Mo guy was a leviathan, but he wasn’t bulletproof.
Goddamned shit.
“I’m with you,” Smithie confirmed, because he had no choice.
Hawk studied him before he noted, “You haven’t asked me how much this is going to cost.”
“That’s because I don’t care,” Smithie told him.
They held eyes.
Hawk broke it by lifting his chin and exiting the room.
He shut the door behind him.
Slowly, Smithie sat in his chair.
He’d had trouble in the club from some assholes not long ago.
At the time, it had nearly broken him. He’d thought it had come in the form of a man’s worst nightmare about what could happen to women he held in his heart.
He’d been wrong.
Chapter Two
As Often as I Could
Lottie
When the doorbell rang, I was already mildly freaking out.
When I looked through the peephole and saw nothing but a black compression shirt covering a muscled chest, I got even more freaked out.
I was barefoot. My peephole was nearly at eye level. Regardless, it magnified the area outside it.
And still, all I saw was chest.
Right…
How big was this guy?
“Who is it?” I shouted through the door.
“Mo!” was grunted back.
Okay, that was the name I was given.
“Squat down, I can’t see your face!” I yelled, still looking through the peephole.
The chest moved, and a thick, ropy throat came into view before I got a face.
Whoa.
Smithie described my new bodyguard as “motherfucking huge, bald and ugly.”
He got two things right.
The last was a matter of opinion. That fixed stare from silver eyes under a protruding brow and over a large nose that was framed by cut cheekbones with cavernous cheeks and a jaw so perfectly angled, it could be used in geometry class could be considered too brutish for some.
But not me.
This was going to be a problem.
“I’m opening up!” I bellowed, still staring at his face.
That face disappeared, and I got his throat and chest again as he straightened.
Yes, this was going to be a problem.
I unlocked and opened my door.
Then I immediately, and automatically, took a step back.
All right.
Whoa.
I could get a hint from the chest and what it might be attached to with what I’d seen of that throat, but this guy had to be six five, maybe taller.
And his height was only a part of why Smithie described him the way he did.
He wasn’t “motherfucking huge.”
He was motherfucking huge.
I was average height.
But slender.
My sister had ass.
My job was physical. It wasn’t just the nightly dancing. It was the practice and constantly choreographing and adding new routines. I could probably eat a boatload, but I didn’t because I was too busy to eat, and when I did, I’d learned long ago what all the experts said was what an expert would know from studying it. Eating good food gave me more energy, made me sleep better and put me in a better mood (most of the time).
So unless the occasion was special, I put good food in my mouth and didn’t drink much outside water, flavored water, sparkling water, with the odd antioxidant vitamin drink thrown in.
So yeah, I was slender.
And two of me could make this guy.
Maybe three.
He moved forward.
I moved back.
His movements were unwieldy. Not clumsy—heavy and plodding.
It didn’t matter this guy was a bull in a china shop.
He’d terrify small children.
Hell, he’d terrify grown men.
And that had nothing to do with the gun worn openly on his hip.
It had to do with what that compression shirt barely contained, not to mention the carved protrusion of the muscles of his biceps exposed by the short sleeves, the sinewy, richly veined lengths of his forearms and the trunks of his long legs covered in dark gray commando pants.
He shut the door behind him, twisted at the waist and I heard the lock click.
He twisted back to me.
“H
ey,” I forced out.
He dipped his chin.
“You’re Mo,” I stated unnecessarily.
“Yup,” he agreed.
“Okay, so…”
I stood there, barefoot, in my tight tank that had ridden up to gather around my middle and as such exposed an inch of flat belly over my low-slung faded jeans, and I didn’t know what to do.
He was looking me in the eye.
Right in the eye.
Not once did his gaze drift down.
Or up, to my hair.
I had great hair.
And great tits.
And, well, not to be conceited or anything, but considering a lot of folks came to watch me take my clothes off, it wasn’t lost on me I had a good body. But I already knew that because I just did.
I was struggling with dealing with a man who not only looked like this but was also as big as this and was there for the purpose he was there.
But it was worse because I had no clue how to deal with a man who looked me right in the eye and appeared to have no interest in anything beyond that.
Except for the fact I was no longer freaked out, and considering Smithie had phoned to tell me I now had a bodyguard, though he’d shared he’d explain why later, my freakout might have been mild, but I’d still been freaking.
Now, instead, I was battling the urge to climb him like a tree.
I contained the urge and asked, “How freaked out should I be that Smithie put you on me?”
“Hawk’ll get into that.”
Well, there you go.
Freakout returned.
I mean…
Hawk Delgado?
Smithie hadn’t mentioned Hawk Delgado.
Smithie had only mentioned I had a bodyguard, and ugly stuff had gone down at the club in the past. Ugly stuff that tore Smithie up. So I put it down to him being overcautious, something he was now on a normal basis.
Hawk Delgado was either reaching the extremes of overcautious or shit was serious.
And my guess was, Smithie didn’t tell me about Hawk because he was parceling out the bad news.
Shit.
“Right. Hawk,” I said. “Now how freaked out should I be that Smithie brought in a guy like Hawk Delgado for whatever is going on?”
This guy made no reply.
He just kept looking me in the eye.
“Mo—”
“Hawk’ll get into that,” he repeated.
I threw up a hand. “Listen, I’m sure this is no big thing. It isn’t unusual to have guys fixate on me. It’s happened before. They’re typically harmless.”
Mo had nothing to say to that either.
“Or Smithie has a word with him or sends in Joaquim or Jaylen and they back off. If they had the guts, they’d just approach me from the beginning.”
Mo still didn’t feel like replying.
“If Smithie’s freaked and called in Hawk, that says to me I should be seriously freaked,” I pointed out.
Again, no input from Mo, but it cut through my freakout that he might not be moving his mouth, but his eyes said, “Yes, you should be seriously freaked.”
So I went from getting seriously freaked to being seriously freaking freaked.
“Ohmigod,” I whispered, my hand drifting to my belly. “This is bad.”
That was when it happened.
That exact moment was when my entire life changed.
His gaze moved down to my belly.
And his face went from harsh and impassive to wholly beautiful.
This was because it softened.
Whatever was happening, he hated it was happening.
Whatever had Smithie freaked, me freaked, Hawk Delgado (of all people) pulled in to deal with it, Mo didn’t want it to be happening. He didn’t want me to feel what I was feeling, what I would feel until this situation was brought to an end.
He hated I would be feeling that too.
He was there. He was going to get paid to protect me from it.
But it was not just a job to him.
It was more.
He did not know me, and I wasn’t just a great pair of tits and a fantastic head of hair any guy with a dick would want to see go unharmed.
I was a person who was feeling something sucky and he was a person who didn’t like people to feel sucky.
No.
He hated it.
That was the guy he was.
Yes, my entire life just changed.
“Mo,” I called quietly.
His attention returned to my face.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I assured him.
That strong chin dipped again.
Okay.
Moving on.
“Do you want something to eat?” I asked.
“Tour,” he grunted, but he did it not looking around.
He needed to know the lay of the land.
But now I had another problem.
I was nervous.
Actually nervous.
I didn’t get nervous around guys.
Handsome. Confident. Built. Successful. Rich. It didn’t matter to me.
Were they funny?
That mattered.
Were they smart?
That mattered too.
Did they have goals in life and weren’t afraid to do the work to attain them?
That totally mattered.
Did they define me as a stripper in all that conveyed to the judgmental world who didn’t get I really couldn’t give that first fuck what people thought about what I did to make a (very good) living? Thus, they thought I was sleazy and easy and could get in my pants and then brag they tagged a stripper and not even remember my name?
That definitely mattered.
I couldn’t remember the last time I was nervous around a guy.
In fact, I didn’t think there was a time I’d been nervous around a guy.
But I had this insane desire to play with my hair, was worried I’d trip when I turned around to guide him into my house, and worst of all, I was suddenly completely focused on not doing anything that would make him think I was a dork, an idiot, or anything the slightest bit unattractive.
Shit.
I successfully made the pivot and moved him through the short foyer of my Denver Tudor into the living room and immediately regretted decorating in mostly white.
White with gray veins in the marble of the fireplace. Boxy white contemporary sofa (though it had big, colored throw pillows and warm but light-colored wood feet). White walls. White curtains (though they hung at the sides and the Roman shades were bamboo). Even the rug was mostly white with a gray geometric pattern. But the floors were oak (however, it was white oak, gah!).
Did Mo like fresh, clean and bright?
Did he have a problem with the salmon accents?
I mean, my armchair was salmon. Was that too feminine?
And if he sat on the sofa, would he bang his head on my standing lamp that arched over the side? (Thank God it was black.)
“Uh,” I swept out a hand, making a mental note to adjust the arch of the lamp, and turned to him, “this is the living room.”
He said nothing.
But he walked to the window closest to him and my blinds—which were only partially lowered because they looked good that way, giving the room a warmer feeling from the wood—came down because he made that so.
He then lumbered over to the other window and did the same.
“Okay, so no one looking in, right?” I guessed, feeling the room turn suddenly chilly, and not because the sun was no longer shining into it.
He turned and dipped his chin to me.
He then looked toward the open plan dining room and kitchen that fed from the living room and moved there.
I followed him.
The (white) dining room table had a turquoise block rug under it.
That was good.
But the kitchen had oversized, gleaming white subway tile all over the walls. Stark white counters. Though one side was white cupbo
ards, the other side was black, and I had one below-counter, hunter green cupboard to throw in some contrast. The railing to the stairs that led down to the back door was white, but the door was black.
More bamboo shades, no curtains.
And the floor was tiled in a kickass black and white artisanal design and the light fixtures were gold.
The hunter green was semi manly.
Did men do white?
At all?
I realized when Mo made the rounds of the blinds in the dining room and kitchen that he didn’t care about artisanal floors or my stemmed, wide but shallow wooden fruit bowl and whether or not that fruit bowl was feminine or mostly unisex.
Through his ministrations, the entire space was shrouded in darkness, so I flipped a light switch.
And he didn’t care about the gold fixtures.
He was again looking at me.
“While this is going on, you should feel free to eat and drink what you want,” I offered and opened the door to my fridge (white SMEG, dammit, SMEG was definitely girlie, wasn’t it?). “You cover my ass, mi casa is definitely su casa.”
His gaze flicked to the inside of the fridge and his face registered open approval I could not miss before it came back to me.
So, he ate healthy too.
And maybe he approved of my obsessive lining up of stuff and tidy placement and (perhaps OCD) usage of matching food storage containers.
If he did, this would be good.
I mean, it looked like a Container Store ad in there.
It was then it hit me he didn’t say much.
But he definitely communicated.
And this was further demonstrated when he turned his attention to the foyer.
He was done in the kitchen, time to move on.
I didn’t move on.
“I like light, bright space.”
“Blinds closed,” he declared.
His voice was very deep. Not rough. Not smooth.
Just right.
Shit!
“I mean, I like bright space so that explains all the white,” I told him.
He didn’t care even a little bit about all the white.
His attention went again to the foyer.
“And I’m tidy,” I shared.
He looked to me.
Then immediately back to the foyer.
Okay then.
Time to move on.
I moved us on.
I took him along the short hall that contained the stairs to the study and TV room on the other side of the house (more closing of blinds).
Quiet Man: A Dream Man Novella Page 3